


A Copia Christmas

by fellowwriter



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: F/M, Feelings, France (Country), furs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellowwriter/pseuds/fellowwriter
Summary: Maîtresse spends Christmas with Copia inles Pyrénées.





	A Copia Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all my readers!  
> THANK YOU for reading in 2018 and for all your lovely notes and comments that keep me going.  
>  _Bonnes fêtes de fin d'année!_ xx

“At last,” he stated as he took my hand when I stepped from the car.

The compact snow crunched beneath my heeled boots, and I felt the cold on my cheeks as he raised and kissed my gloved hand. My lined leather gloves had fur cuffs instead of symbols on the back.

“Thank you for traveling so far.”

“I almost didn’t come,” I confessed. “It’s not our usual location.”

“It’s secure,” he reassured me. “They do not know about it.” His eyes darted from my eyes to my lips, to my hair and down my long velvet down coat as he reacquainted himself with me. The year had been long, and I would never admit it, but I missed him—enough for me to risk coming here.

The driver fetched my overnight bag from the trunk, and Copia released my hand and took it from him, slinging the leather tote over his shoulder. He reached up to lift my fur-trimmed hood over my head as the car pulled away, and then he put his arm around my shoulders as we turned to walk across the cobblestones through the narrow alley to the square on the other side.

“Careful,” he warned, “it’s slippery.”

It was already dark and few people were about as another snowstorm promised to roll in that evening. The only store in the tiny commune had turned its sign and was preparing to close but was still festive with white lights along its eaves and a decorated tree in its window. Copia paused so I could look at it before we continued three doors down to an inn.

“This is the place?” When I turned my head, his face was close.

“For dinner.”

I wasn’t sure if I was the meal when he said it, but when he opened the door and I stepped inside, warm oven smells welcomed us. Copia raised his head, nodding for me to walk straight through the entryway, past the staircase and to the kitchen.

A small casual table was set for two opposite the range, and _l’aubergiste,_ a short elderly man, nodded and smiled at us before putting on mitts and opening its door, bringing a dutch oven to the table. Copia hung our coats on hooks next to the innkeeper’s, placing my bag and our gloves on a stool. When he removed his black wool fedora, it astonished me to see a streak of gray at his temples.

The innkeeper pulled my chair out for me before disappearing, leaving Copia a corkscrew for opening a bottle of wine.

“You’re here often?” I admired the kitchen’s simplicity as Copia removed the foil and twisted the corkscrew. His hands looked the same: pale and smooth from always wearing gloves that hid his pleasantly long fingers.

“Not really. Twice a year at best.” He removed the cork, sniffing it before setting it down.

“Always on the road then.”

He said nothing as he poured a splash of red wine for me to taste, and I nodded that it was good.

“Is this where you’re from?” He had told me once he was from the south, and the remote mountain setting here in _les Pyrénées_ suited him. I remembered fondly how naïve he could be from his rural upbringing when we were first introduced years ago.

There was a pause as I watched him fill our glasses.

“I can’t return home,” he mumbled, setting the bottle down and taking his seat. “And I can’t return to you,” he added when he finally met my gaze.

I reached for his hand across the table as he held up his glass to toast with mine, and we drank in silence as I watched our relationship flash through his eyes. I had never expected to become attached to him, but he differed from the others.

“This is as close to home as I will ever get.” He set his glass down but kept my hand.

“Do I need to call you Papa now?” I murmured, and he lifted his nose. It made him uncomfortable.

_“Bon appétit,”_ he proclaimed as he let go to put a mitt on his hand, lifting the lid from the pot on the table. _“C’est navarin.”_ Our noses filled with the savory aroma of the _ragoût_ of mutton, winter vegetables and herbs.

He stared at me for the first half of the meal, and his eyes weren’t innocent like they were long ago. He had been hardened, the first time under my own hand, and I could never take it back. He once assured me he relished all our time together—even the early days at the bordel, and although he was sincere, it was difficult to accept. I was partially responsible for his fate. For his loneliness. And each year I spent one night making it up to him as if that could ever be enough.

Christmas became the day we chose to be together. Since it was futile to schedule rituals on or around it, we could slip away without being noticed or missed, somewhere remote where no one would see us—or hear us. The first year I screamed in delight when I unzipped his trousers and found a red bow straining his erection.

“Tell me about you.” He set his utensils down, sitting back in his chair to listen.

“Business is still good. I can support myself.” I took a quick sip of wine. “Paris keeps changing. You must keep up and not lose your place.”

“Are you still living alone?” He wasn’t wasting time.

“I am.” I watched his eyes soften a little. I never thought I would meet anyone who could surpass what we had, what we shared. But he always questioned it.

“I have hired more staff,” I continued. “I want to travel more. See the rest of the world. My apartment has become a lonely place.”

He reached for my hand across the table again and held it. I had just arrived, and I already dreaded letting go.

“We need to leave soon,” he urged as he emptied the wine bottle between our glasses. “The storm is coming.”

  


* * *

  


Copia escorted me to the road behind the inn when we left through its back door, but we had only taken a few steps when he stopped, pressing me backwards to the building’s stone exterior. I put my hands to his wool coat as he pushed my hood’s fur trim from my forehead, and his glove went to my cheek. His mouth parted, revealing his lower front teeth, and his breath was visible in the cold. It had been a year since I tasted him, and as he closed in, his eyes shifting from mine to my lips, my heart raced.

I quietly moaned over his slick tongue, and a low satisfied warble escaped his throat as he tightened his grip around my shoulders, removing his fedora with his other hand to press our faces closer.

When he pulled his head back, his lips lingered gently over mine before he spoke again.

“I needed to get that out of the way,” he whispered from beneath his eyelashes as he looked down at me, and there under the faint light from the inn windows, everything came rushing back. His breath. His taste. His scent. His imposing stature. “I have been waiting... so long.” His voice noticeably dropped, and a flicker crossed his carnal eyes. “I need you soon,” he rasped. I heard and felt the urgency as he straightened my coat, his blackened eyes appearing even darker.

He pressed his hat back to his head, jostling my bag over his shoulder, before firmly grabbing my upper arm and leading me to the end of the street. I weakened under his grip, hastening my steps to keep up with him as he marched to the corner.

My mouth fell open when I saw the horses. The old wooden sleigh sat where the road ended, facing a groomed trail into the woods.

“In the back,” he instructed, holding and lifting my hand as I climbed up. There was a pile of blankets between the rear seat and the coachman, and he set my bag down and wrapped a wool blanket around my shoulders before getting in himself, sliding against my hips and pulling a larger blanket over our laps.

When the coachman turned to see if we were ready, I recognized the innkeeper. Copia nodded, putting his arm around my shoulders, and the two horses broke into a walk when the coachman faced forward again, a sliver of moonlight illuminating the white path in front of us.

“Is he a close friend of yours?” I nodded in the coachman's direction.

“I can trust him.” His free hand moved under the blanket to my lap, reaching below my coat’s last button, slipping between the layers to my dress.

I tipped my head against his shoulder as I admired the snowy scenery, the only sounds coming from the horses muted footsteps as they broke into a trot.

“How much longer until you’re mine?” I whispered as his hand stroked my thigh. “You’re making me wait.” I was only halfway teasing.

I felt his mustache at my ear.

“I’ll make you beg,” he said darkly.

When I turned to see his face, his tongue was halfway across his lower lip, and I reached for his sideburns.

“We’ll see about that,” I retorted as I pulled his mouth against mine.

  


* * *

  


The fireplace was already ablaze when we stepped inside, and after leaving our coats and boots at the door, I stood at its hearth while Copia prepared _digestifs._

The single-level stone chalet had wooden floors with dimmed rustic chandeliers lighting its eaves. But instead of cold it felt cozy, draped in layers of fur that made a trail from the floor in front of the hearth over a large low sectional to the bed. Plush rugs and sumptuous furred blankets and pillows enveloped the room, just as the snow enveloped the landscape outside the large windows.

Copia said nothing as he handed me a Cognac, his fingers lingering when he wrapped my hand around the snifter to warm it.

I watched him drink his, his mouth parting between sips, before he set the glass on the hearth and stood in front of me.

There were five dainty buttons below my _décolleté_ neckline, and he studied my face as he unbuttoned them all, spreading the cashmere, and I felt my nipples harden beneath my bra.

“So cold,” he whispered, tracing his thumbs over them. I stiffened and took a sip of my drink as he made them ache. He waited for me to swallow, and when I brought the glass down, he tilted it, his index finger reaching the liquor in the vessel's bottom.

He placed his finger under my chin, running it down my neck and the length of my sternum until it disappeared between my breasts. His touch felt pleasantly warm, and his mouth followed its path, a series of slow delicate licks and kisses to my bosom, and then our eyes locked again as he dropped to his knees on the thick fur rug.

_“Tu me fais mouiller,”_ I muttered at the gesture, even though he already knew.

I watched him lift the hem of my long cashmere dress, his hands sliding up my legs to the end of my thigh-high winter stockings, and I took another drink when his warm fingers reached my flesh. He slid each stocking down and off slowly, one at a time, before he reached up again for my hands. He set my glass on the hearth next to his before pulling me down into the nest of blankets.

I sank into the pillows, his lips and tongue becoming once again familiar. His palm pressed against my cheek to hold me still as he ravaged me, and he refused to keep his eyes closed, both of us stealing glances, wanting to remember everything and have the night seared into our memory for when we were apart.

He stared at my body as he undressed it, tracing his fingers over me in admiration. He remembered the erogenous zone at my neck and teased it, causing me to shudder, and as he unzipped my dress and pulled my bra away, his fingers grazed the small familiar notch on my shoulder. I took his hand, both of us remembering how it came to be, before he lowered his nose to kiss it softly. He then shifted to kiss my back in the place I liked before his hands slid my dress and underwear down the rest of my body. As I lifted my hips for him, I moaned when I felt the soft fur against my backside.

When I unbuttoned his shirt, I found new freckles beneath his patch of chest hair, and I pressed my lips to his jugular notch where his skin was beginning to wrinkle, hearing his muffled sigh of contentment.

After I pushed his shirt from his shoulders, I swept my hands over them and down his back, hesitating before I skimmed his fading scars. He reached behind his back for my wrists, slowly pulling them away, and caressed my pulse points with his thumbs before I unfastened his trousers. When he had them off, he pulled me between his legs as we sat in front of the fire, and I took a ragged breath when I felt the thighs I missed tighten around my hips.

His body heat warmed me quickly as his chin rested on my shoulder. When I leaned forward to grab our glasses from the hearth, his hands went to my hips, pressing his firm cock against me when I sat back down.

The fire crackled as we finished our drinks, his free hand softly cupping my breast before wandering down my abdomen.

“I missed this,” he mumbled in my ear. “You.” With his finger, he drew a line connecting the moles on my collarbone, something he had done hundreds of times.

I turned my chin so I could see his green eye, and it glistened.

“If you weren’t—” He pressed his finger over my lips so I wouldn’t say it, and I took his hand.

“Maybe we should open our gifts now,” I suggested, and he grunted in agreement, getting up to exchange our empty glasses for two white sheepskin stockings that hung on the mantle.

“You go first,” I told him, as he sat across from me on the rug and handed me my sock.

“It’s small,” he joked as he pulled out the thin box from his.

“This year’s theme was deprivation,” I teased. His eyes flickered on the word as I piqued his curiosity and softened when he lifted the lid.

“Your scarf,” he murmured. “From our trip.” His memories flooded his face before he looked at me, confused.

“Deprivation,” I said again, taking the scarf from the box. As I held it up to his face, he smelled a trace of my perfume, and he grunted when I covered his eyes, tying the embroidered silk behind his head.

I climbed into his lap and wrapped my legs around him, his thick cock slipping easily between my lips. He groaned as his hands went to my hips, and I ran my finger over his mustache before pulling his lower lip down.

“Not yet,” he urged. “Open yours.”

I pushed the scarf up on his forehead and kissed him, keeping my pussy on his cock while he reached for my stocking.

“Also small,” I smiled, holding the box between our chests, but I heaved when I lifted the lid.

“They’re yours now.” He took them out of the box. I had never touched them before.

“I have a new wardrobe,” he explained, but I couldn’t hear anything as he put one on his right hand.

He brought his knuckles to my neck, and I trembled when the row of five white buttons along his wrist slid slowly across my erogenous zone.

“It’s hardly deprivation,” I muttered between breaths, trying to keep myself together as I shuddered and rubbed my clit over his cock.

And then he put the glove’s black palm to my throat, and I gasped as he gently clenched it.

“It’s your favorite kind,” he whispered as I lost my breath, and then my mind.

I fell backwards onto the rug as he leaned forward, keeping the pressure on my throat. My hips writhed over the fur in anticipation of his cock.

“Ready to beg?” His voice painfully dropped.

“Cover your eyes!” I hissed, and I saw the longing in them before he let me pull the scarf down, still holding my throat.

As he kneeled next to my hip, I watched his head lower over my pussy, using his other hand to feel and separate my legs. His angular nose led the way, nuzzling between my lips until I felt his mustache at my clit, causing me to lurch forward and suffocate under his firm hand. He held still, listening for my breath, before he continued.

His tongue flicked my clit softly and lapped between my inner lips, and I could hear the wet sounds he made over the fire. When I moaned for him, he felt the vibration in his hand and stroked my throat with his leather thumb, making me moan again even louder.

He growled into my pussy loudly as he buried his mustache deeper before lifting his head and dragging his damp whiskers across my abdomen. I shook and was still panting when he used his tongue to find my nipple, grazing his lower teeth over it before softly biting down. My voice gave out in a faint shriek, and he listened for my breath again before he continued, teasing and biting the other nipple before his mouth climbed towards my neck.

He moved between my legs when I raised them, and I reached for his dripping cock and stroked it as his face hovered over mine, one hand holding himself up, the other still clamped around my throat. I made him moan as I rubbed the head of his cock over my clit, and he turned his head so he could feel my labored breathing on his cheek.

“Beg,” he growled coarsely, lifting his hips out of reach and lessening the pressure on my windpipe. “Beg for my cock.”

I moaned under the glove and then cried out as he bit my lower lip, pressing the leather down harder over my throat.

“Beg,” he ordered, and I did with my eyes but he couldn’t see them.

“Please,” I finally sputtered, grasping his hair, and that was enough.

He lifted his palm from my throat as he lowered his hips, and I reached my hands out to his firm ass to welcome him. His body, his girth—the fur on my back, everything felt so good when he was finally inside. My mind calmed as my heartbeat raced under him. I enjoyed no one as much, and I needed him to see my face then, to see my pleasure. His pupils widened when I lifted the scarf from his head, and I knew we were both close from the sounds he made.

“Don’t... slow... down,” I uttered as he fucked me into the rug, eyes dark. He knew he was hitting the right place, staring at my reaction to each thrust, his mouth opening a little wider each time.

Everything went hazy as I felt my orgasm coming, but our eyes stayed locked. His glistened and turned visceral in our final moments, crinkling when I dragged my hips back the final time as he applied the lightest caress to my throat with his gloved hand.

He covered me with his body as I felt each throb, warming me inside and outside. We studied each other’s faces as they contorted, wanting to remember everything. Every freckle. Every wrinkle. Every expression and feeling that flickered between our eyes. I could see his fondness for me. His passion. His devotion. The regret he couldn’t heal.

“Don’t,” I whispered as our pulses grew further apart and eventually stopped, and it surprised him how well I could read his thoughts. “It’s enough.”

I could still feel his heartbeat as he lowered his lips.

“Merry Christmas, Maîtresse.”

And when he pressed our lips together, our eyes finally closed, blissful in that moment and content.


End file.
